


I Still Carry Such a Flame

by iloveyoudie



Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse (TV)
Genre: Card Games, Casino games, Crushes, Dancing, Drinking, Everyone looks Very Good, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Horny for Jewelry, M/M, Sibling Bonding, Siblings, fancy party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26449573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: Morse found himself rather tongue tied. He was used to Max looking put together, more so than anyone else he knew, but the doctor had thoroughly embraced his flair for fashion in the spirit of the evening's theme.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse & Joyce Garrett, Endeavour Morse & Joyce Morse, Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse, Max DeBryn/Endeavour Morse, Max Debryn & Margaret Crowther
Comments: 16
Kudos: 36





	I Still Carry Such a Flame

**Author's Note:**

> This WIP is more than a year old. Finally happy to wrap it up and release it to the world! 
> 
> It was just an excuse to put Max in jewelry. Because men in jewelry is very hot. Esp a lot of rings.

“A double whiskey and a glass of rosé please…” Morse felt stiff in his formal wear and shifted as he cast his eyes along the bar. He was not the only man at the yearly Police Widows and Orphans Fundraising Gala in simple and sleek black and white, but the event had incited an increase of glitz and glamour for the usually austere Oxfordshire elite. Lonsdale College was playing host, a subtle effort to boost their own coffers in addition to the Fund, so the college’s quad had been transformed into a mini Monte Carlo under a series of temporary pavilions surrounding the central fountain.

With the theme in mind, the gowns had gotten flashier and the suits had gotten bolder, but Morse’s formal wear options extended only to his single evening suit. At the insistence of his date he’d managed to dig out his only possessions of any taste: a silver pocket watch, chain, and fob, a set of cufflinks and a matching signet ring with an aged, spider-thin ‘M’ engraved in monogram. They were some of the only family heirlooms that his father hadn’t pawned for the ponies and Morse had kept them tucked away in the back of a drawer for years. He was uncomfortable bedecked in so many unnecessary accessories and fiddled with them constantly. He kept touching his cufflinks and turning the ring on his pinky and periodically fingered the watch chain with a careful sort of worry that any single piece could disappear at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t likely he’d be robbed at such a do, but his caution spoke of experience for once, and not baseless paranoia.

As the bartender put the party-goers drinks together at a snail’s pace, Morse smoothed his hair down and searched the area for anyone of note. His sister Joyce had accompanied him for the evening, her first night out of the house after her latest pregnancy, and Morse had initially offered in hopes that she would decline and he’d be able to spin it into an excuse not to attend himself. He’d assumed it may be too much too soon but apparently Joyce had been itching to get out and was thrilled at the offer. He wasn’t sure if she was more excited for a fancy party in the city or by the prospect of dumping little Marilyn and baby Wayne onto her husband Keith for the night. Either way, her eager agreement had shattered every dream he had of skiving off.

When the whiskey and wine were finally set down in front of him, Morse was stopped by a very familiar voice behind his back.

“Be still my beating heart, he does clean up,” There was no mistaking Max’s amused, dry drawl, “I thought these events were more Strange’s sort of thing.”

Morse was already smiling crookedly when he turned to face the doctor. The night was certainly looking up if Max was there. At least he’d have someone to talk to, “The goodly Superintendent is off to Somerset with the family. Clevedon I think.”

“And not in the least bit for the golfing, I’m sure,” Max slid up to the bar beside him and motioned for the bartender who had wandered away as swiftly as they’d come. His eyes moved across Morse’s two drinks then flashed over his hands and wrists and up his torso before settling on his face, “Hot date?”

Morse found himself rather tongue tied. He was used to Max looking put together, more so than anyone else he knew, but the doctor had thoroughly embraced his flair for fashion in the spirit of the evening's theme. His jacket looked to be a cool grey-blue but as he settled close to Morse’s elbow, he realized it was actually a fine navy and white houndstooth. In lieu of his usual knit waistcoats he was wearing lush midnight blue velvet laced across with a glittering silver watch chain. Max’s bow tie had a beautifully intricate and delicate pattern, something like William Morris wallpaper, winding silver leaves and blue flowers, and it made his eyes look bluer than Morse had ever noticed before. There was a deep red silk flower in his lapel that stood out against the cool fabric like a vivid bloom of blood. It was the colour a seductress might wear, like a cutting line of scarlet lipstick or crimson fingernails meant to draw every eye in the room. Max's companion to it was the fob on his watch chain in the shape of an enameled red rose and a large ruby ring on one of his fingers.

Morse was immediately distracted by those fingers. Max never wore jewelry on the job, not with all the gloves and hand washing, but tonight he was bedazzled. When the doctor flicked his wrist to gesture for the wayward bartender again, his hands flashed with light. There were several more rings glittering on his fingers and something silver around his wrist just under the cuff. Morse had to fight from staring, from grabbing Max’s hands like a school girl excited by costume jewelry, and so he glanced away and stared somewhere into the middle distance as he fiddled with his own cufflinks self consciously.

Morse did his best to take in Max’s look with the blink of an eye, the sort of lightning quick glance that he gave a corpse at a crime scene to gather as much information as he could as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. He knew if he were to look a second too long that he may as well be gawking. Max was no fool. He would notice. The doctor remained one of his closest friends and it wouldn't do to be rude.

Unfortunately, this was like his kryptonite. Morse had fancied him for years.

It was the sort of stomach-tumbling, out of reach, compartmentalized desire that very rarely reared its head much more seriously than a flutter from an off-hand compliment or an inside joke between the pair of them that made him grin. Morse would likely never move beyond giving Max lingering looks over a drink or dropping by his home unannounced to sit in his garden and share a meal because he craved the calm warmth of this company. Max was stable. Responsible. A man of some taste and intelligence. Even if his walls had dropped for Morse over the many years of their friendship, Max was clearly much too decent for all his eccentricity. He was certainly much too good for him.

Morse found himself unable to move past the red accents on this ensemble. They were nearly sinful. Everytime he snuck a further glance, his boyish crush struck through him anew and twisted his insides nervously. He felt like he had the first time he’d seen the doctor leaned over a morgue table with his sleeves rolled to his elbows or the first vivid memory of seeing Max with his bow tie undone and a few buttons popped to show a sliver too much of neck. In a morgue, clad in a garish green apron with a corpse inches away or in a garden with a homemade pitcher between them, the setting didn’t matter. Morse had always been mesmerized by bared forearms, visible veins, the gentle crook inside an elbow and the tendons in a wrist. There was a tantalising dip of his throat and just a hint of chest hair. Seeing Max’s skin was like forbidden fruit.

And now, he found, he was being turned on by jewelry.

Or maybe it was just Max.

“I brought my sister, actually,” Morse would not acknowledge how long it had been since he’d had a real date and the longer he sat looking at Max, pining over him, the longer it felt.

“Finally learned your lesson?” Max teased with a chuckle, “No future murder victim or murderess or prospective obstructor of justice?”

Morse couldn’t ignore the mild singe of that burn, and though it was delivered playfully, the soft hit still felt like a low blow coming from the man he fancied. Like all of Max’s jibes, it struck perfectly on the mark, but Morse could brush past it while the doctor relished his tiny victory. Morse was well aware of his own romantic track record, and on a different evening he may have snapped back, but this time his dismissive roll of the eyes was more to get another look at Max’s hands and he found the sight of them, banded in fine metals and gems, to be a lovely little balm for the sting.

“Vodka martini and a gin with lime,” Max instructed the bartender.

Two drinks and one of them a martini. Morse knew the gin was for Max. It was just one of those things he _knew_.

“You?”

“Hm?” Max turned his attention back to Morse but hadn’t seemed to have heard him, he had instead been looking down at Morse’s drinks with a detached distance in his eyes.

Morse spoke up and nodded vaguely towards the bartender, “Hot date.”

“Oh. No, I'm with my niece,” Max was attentive again, his eyes back on Morse’s face, “Her husband wasn’t on the guest list so I think she has _machinations_.”

“Oh? Is she networking?”

“Her version usually involves subterfuge and ambush. She will corner and pounce upon someone much too important and very unsuspecting,” Max picked up both of his drinks as they were much more swiftly prepared and delivered than Morse’s were, “Very ambitious, our Margaret. Wants Bernard up for a chair. God help them all.”

Morse was loathe to let Max go. Besides his own growing fixation with the other man’s evening wear, he was probably the only person here that Morse knew could hold a decent conversation. He imagined Max had some required mingling to do, just as Morse did, but he would milk their time for all it was worth while he had him.

“Looks like they’ve got a gaming tent. Are you much of a gambler, Max?”

The pair of them were known to fling idle bets around freely, fivers and tenners on stupid facts and bits of gossip to keep themselves entertained on the daily. Morse regularly lost a few quid to Max for bungling his quotations, but they’d never done any real gambling. In fact, they’d never so much as played a game of cards together. He realized this was likely his own doing, group events he had ducked out of or parties he'd dropped in on but never stayed. He remembered once even expressing sour disapproval of the lottery when he’d seen Max contributing to one of Strange’s office pools, a waste of money with no guarantee on return he'd told them all, but Max was quick to tell him that he was being a curmudgeon of the worst kind with a swift and succinct reference to Ebenezer Scrooge.

“You know I enjoy a bit of a wager, Morse. I do play cards here and there, though I’m not sure if I will tonight. I’ll likely just drift through the auction and raffle and make my donations, have a bite and a drink, and see how the evening treats me.”

“Well, maybe I can convince you to join me for a game later,” Morse gave him a smile and a nod. Mostly, he wanted to make sure they didn’t play strangers, and if he could, he’d hoard a bit of Max’s time should he plan on ducking out early.

"Maybe," Max smiled small.

With drinks in both of their hands, it seemed to be the time for momentary parting, “Well, I suppose we should, ah-” Morse held up the wine and nodded in the opposite direction.

“Suppose we should,” Max agreed with a smile and a tilt of his head, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.

Morse exhaled as he wound past small pods of chattering people, women in pearls and diamonds with dark lips and potent perfumes and technicolor fingernails, men in jewel toned cumberbuns and kilts, bold coloured suits and glittering cufflinks and tie pins. Morse didn’t bat an eye at any of them. He passed them over completely because they didn’t even register on his radar when Max Debryn was somewhere in attendance with his cool blue and gleaming silver and ruby refinement.

* * *

Morse found Joyce off by herself at a corner table with a small plate of food and he set her drink down as he took an unoccupied chair.

“Aren’t you eating?” She wiped her mouth as she finished something made of pastry with a dollop of fluffy cheese or cream or mousse with a green stalk on top like a weird bit of hair.

“This’ll do me,” Morse lifted his whiskey and sipped.

“I wish you’d take better care of yourself,” She sighed. Morse knew she meant well but he’d long ago become immune to her sisterly fussing.

“Not tonight, Joyce, _please_ ,” Morse sighed. His gaze meandered once more over their surroundings while his sister finished up eating and when she pushed her plate towards him, a couple of small decorated quiches and something with a large prawn laying across the top leftover, he had no choice but to finish them up for her. It was like an unspoken sister-brother rule, no matter how old they both were.

Morse recognized a few faces in the ambling crowd but most of the people he would prefer to interact with didn’t seem to be in attendance. Strange had ditched completely and he knew for a fact that Jerome was off in Greece on holiday. Dotty Frazil was usually flitting about these things collecting snatches of gossip and cleaning up at the card tables, but tonight she was nowhere to be found. Joyce and she would have got on well, he mused. Morse, for what it was worth, had spoken with the Chief Constable as soon as he’d arrived and thus had already done his duty as a member of Thames Valley’s Finest to show his face.

“There’s a silent auction and raffle in one of the other tents,” Morse said aloud when he realized he couldn’t find Max in his line of sight nor any young woman who looked overtly related to him. He was sure he’d seen Margaret once or twice over the years, and certainly a picture of the family in Max’s cottage somewhere, but for the life of him he couldn’t recall her face, “Care to stroll through? You could snag a weekend trip or a restaurant voucher for you and Keith.”

“Alright,” Joyce took a cleansing sip of her wine, dabbed at her mouth to not muss her lipstick and made a very satisfied face. She seemed to be enjoying herself so far, even if it had only been a tiny bit of mingling followed by food and drink, “That’s the point of the thing, yeah? Charity?”

The evening air was breezy and cool as they passed between tents and Morse was amazed that the pavilions managed to get stuffy and warm even while outside in such pleasant weather. The quadrangle had been divided into four corners, each tucked under a tent hung with twinkling lights: by the entrance was the food and drink, the next was the auction and raffle, one tent was dedicated wholly to the gambling tables, and the last shielded an open air stage with a small band and a dance floor.

The music selection was soft and jazzy, something upbeat enough to draw a smattering of dancers. They were mostly silver haired couples clutching one another as if they’d been doing this all their lives, and Morse, romantic that he was, liked to imagine that most of them had. He found himself struck by them for a moment, dots of silver and black and glints of gems and gold all bopping in gentle tandem to the tempo of the music. Something in his chest twinged, some deep longing, the sort of thing that a transcendent aria pulled from him, an enervating prickle on his skin, a distant yearning for a partner, for a hand in his own for a lifetime.

Even just a night would do.

Morse wondered, very distantly, if Max was a dancer.

“Fancy a dance later?” He glanced at his sister and stuffed his hands firmly into his pockets.

“You and I?” Joyce chuckled, “We haven’t done that since my wedding. Remember?”

“Gwen hated me giving you away,” Morse mirrored her smile, “But we had a nice time aside from the daggers she shot me all evening.”

“And by the time we got to the dancing I was already half drunk! When I told the waitress not to let me ever be empty handed, I didn’t mean _before_ the speeches and all…” Joyce laughed with him and hooked her elbow through his as they walked.

The auction tent was much less crowded than the others. The items that were up for offer hung on temporarily constructed panels and were sat out for display on black cloth covered tables and Morse and Joyce only stopped to register themselves briefly before moving on. Morse received polite _‘Inspector’_ greetings from the pair of uniformed constables who’d been roped into working the event. It made his sister laugh a bit to hear him addressed by rank but it gave Morse a tiny swell of importance that she had noticed at all. He gave the coppers a smile and appreciative wink before moving on.

It was all the usual things, gift baskets of wine and vouchers for upscale restaurants for the lower bidders, donated bits of art and sculpture made by students who had been previous benefactors of the fund, then of course the higher priced items such as trips and hotel stays and dinners with football players or scholars or notable local figures who were convinced to donate their time.

Morse was putting a bid in on a pair of concert tickets and Joyce had moved off to look at the art when a body sidled up very close beside him and cast a shadow across what he was writing. A head peered over his shoulder and a firm body nearly pressed into his side to read what he was jotting down.

“I didn’t think you were fond of _Madame Butterfly_ ,” Max emanated warmth and Morse could feel his stomach nudge against him. He tried not to notice that the doctor smelled like fresh mint and gin and citrus over the distant lingering scent of aftershave. He was sharp and clean and crisp and Morse swallowed down the desire to bury himself in it.

He stopped writing and straightened, “One must make sacrifices for charity. I could always force them on Strange. Broaden his horizons beyond EastEnders.”

Max was alone but there was a blonde talking to Joyce in front of a rather horrific looking statue that was up for auction. It had quite a few bids from what he could tell and the voluptuous nature of the figure made it a bit of a head turner. Joyce and her companion both burst into sudden laughter.

“That your niece?” Morse glanced back at Max and found the man’s eyes weren’t on him so he took the opportunity to get a better look at the silver links dangling out of his cuff and the rings dotting his fingers. Two on each hand. All different fingers. He wondered if they meant anything. Was this just for a night out? Was this how he would dress all the time if he’d chosen another career path? Perhaps if he'd been a rich layabout, instead of a diligent and hardworking man. He would lounge in silks and wear gems and drink wine all day as he stared at his garden or strolled through his greenhouse and ate cakes brought to him by stupidly attractive young house staff who all fancied a chance to catch his eye…

“Margaret, yes,” Max glanced back at him and Morse’s eyes darted to their dates again as he snapped out of his baroque imaginings.

“Joyce,” Morse motioned to his sister. The ladies chatted like old friends. Was it so easy for women? Were they truly some secret grand sisterhood like every man suspected? “She's just had a baby if you would believe it. About a month ago. It’s her first night out without the kids or the husband since.”

“You’re full of all sorts of charity this evening then, aren’t you?” Max smiled at him, his voice much warmer and affectionate than the tease this time.

“ _Do good by stealth_ ,” Morse said with a shrug. After a pause he continued, “All of this is a bit much though, don’t you think? Glitz and glamour to drum up a few pennies. They could all just cut a cheque and be done with it.”

“Oh, come now, Morse. This lot will drum up more than a few pennies and the cheques will be much fatter after they’ve got a bit of bubbly down,” Max then leaned in and spoke softly, as if he were disclosing a secret, “And we both know you do plenty of good outside of stealth.”

Morse felt rather warm all of a sudden.

Max straightened again, this time touching Morse’s elbow. It was nothing more than a gentle squeeze but to Morse it felt like more, “Loosen up. Try to have fun for a few hours. At least for your sister’s sake.”

Joyce and Margaret were finally approaching and Max’s hand dropped to his pocket watch. Morse watched him slide his fingers along the watch chain and stop at the round and ornately etched fob. He turned it over in his fingers idly and those rings in such close proximity to the watch sent odd tingles of longing through Morse’s extremities. He didn’t even know what he was longing for.

Introductions were made all around. Joyce to _‘Dr. Debryn’ ‘Please call me Max.’_ \- and _‘Inspector Morse’ ‘Just Morse’_ to Margaret. Max congratulated Joyce on the new baby and she laughed in that way tired mothers always did and talked about little blessings and lack of sleep and not trading any of it for the world. Margaret, on the other hand, seemed to be distracted. Her eyes drifted and her attention wandered. She was taller than her uncle, slim and attractive, but there was a tensity in her jaw and a shrewd look in her eye and Morse got the impression that Max was right about her being a rather formidable woman.

He also wished good luck to whomever she prevailed herself upon that evening.

“Do you have children, Margaret?” Morse inquired to not be entirely left out of the conversation.

“No,” She finally focused on him and it was the first time since her laughter with Joyce that Morse had seen her smile. He didn’t get the impression that she was predisposed to easy joy, “My husband Bernard and I are very career oriented.”

“We know all about that, don't we,” Max smirked up at him in that pointed way he had, “Morse?"

He felt warm again.

Joyce glanced between them all for a moment before her eyes were also drawn away, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve.. um...” She gestured in the vicinity of the sign indicating the toilets and Margaret decided to accompany her. It left Max and Morse standing alone just outside the auction tent.

Morse dragged a hand through his hair before he realized he ought not muss it up, "Do they have some sort of secret club we don't know about?"

"What?" Max seemed distracted again and blinked back to meet Morses eyes.

"Women. Even when they don't know one another they seem to team up," Morse sipped the end of his whiskey and was left with an empty glass. He noticed Max was also running low.

"Well it’s not like men are doing them any favours. Who else’ve they got besides one other? You do know that not everything is a grand conspiracy against your masculinity, don’t you? Is it your career that makes you so suspicious or are you just a chronic outcast?"

Morse breathed deeply and tilted his head with a crooked smirk, "Both?"

Max just gave him a hopeless sort of look.

"You're low, Max," Morse glanced at his drink, another excuse to look at his hands. Max's fingers shifted and readjusted their grip and Morse was sure he could hear the metal of the rings clink gently against the glass. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He waggled his own empty, "Can I get you another?"

“I’d be a fool to pass it up, I think,” Max’s eyebrows raised, “And then how about we have that card game? The girls will find us, I’m sure.”

Morse had thrown out the idea of cards as conversation fodder initially, but now the idea of watching Max handle a deck with those very entrancing hands sent a hungry little tremor through his gut. He grinned, “Perfect.”

* * *

They were halfway through their drinks and several hands into a poker game when Morse leaned back and groaned in defeat. Lady Luck was not on his side tonight. After several bunked hands in a row and he wasn’t sure if he’d lost his head for the game all together or if there were just too many distractions. Or maybe it was just the _one_ distraction. The table only supported himself, Max, and the dealer, and the first few hands had been the very poor luck of the draw, but somewhere around the time that Max sat back in his seat and began to fiddle with his watch fob between his fingers as he contemplated his hand, was when Morse had consciously lost his handle on things.

“I thought you’d be better at this, Morse,” Max smirked, all smug dimpled cheeks, pleased as punch about the chips piling up in front of him.

“Not my night,” Worse was that Morse knew Max’s tells. He was an investigator after all and knowing when people were lying was an essential skill of the trade. Max had been stretching the truth with him for years, so he wasn't blind to it. He knew the way the man tapped his fingers on his glass, the off tempo stutter of their drumming that indicated he’d gotten a bad card. Max would also adjust his glasses when he got something good, as if he had to get a closer look, and always - never fail - he would flick his eyes up to Morse as if to see if he’d been spotted.

He had.

But every damn time Morse saw the glint of those bloody rings, normally naked fingers wound in fine metal and gems, and Max's fingertips rubbing along the watch chain... and that shine of bracelet dangling out of the edge of his sleeve… ! Something in his brain just sort of short circuited and the cards in his hands became nothing but a jumbled mess of colours and symbols. It was starting to feel like he was getting in his own way, and as the dealer dealt one more hand, Morse knew it would soon be time to quit.

Morse tugged his ear and licked his lips as he tried to focus. He nearly jumped when a hand clamp down on his shoulder and he glanced up to see Joyce there hovering and sliding her eyes over his cards.

“How’s it going?”

“Bloody awful,” Morse growled as he moved them around between his fingers. Margaret had rejoined them as well, taking up behind Max, and she had another woman with her, someone she seemed to know.

Morse plucked a few cards from his hand and slid them towards the dealer. Joyce's presence was helping him keep his mind on the game at least, on keeping his focus anywhere but on Max, but as the doctor opposite him leaned upwards to speak to his niece he bared a plane of clean shaven neck and a taut line of tendon along his throat that caught Morse's eye anew. Max laughed at something Margaret said and a vein pulsed gently at his collar line and Morse clenched his teeth as he battled his desire to stare.

Joyce's thumb dug into his shoulder to the point of near pain and Morse's eyes snapped back down to his cards. He'd been about to throw a few away without thinking, a very foolish play, but stopped himself as she brought him back to attention. It didn't prevent him thinking some very rude thoughts about what was under Max’s collar, but thank god for his sister paying some measure of attention.

It turned out that this hand wasn’t actually that bad and the confidence it gave had him leaning back this time to fiddle with his own watch. He plucked it from his pocket and opened it. It was a nice old thing and he’d gone and given it a polish before they had left the house. It still kept decent time and Morse momentarily mused on the old engraving inside, from some forgotten relative to another. They’d never been very good with genealogy on either side of his family. It was strange to think that it had once been a treasured gift and now, the people, their legacy, was gone and forgotten but the watch still remained. Morse wondered if they realized how long such a thing would carry on.

"Gentlemen." The dealer cleared his throat and called for their attention and their cards. Max and Morse both hadn’t had their eyes on the table, so they straightened, laid down their hands, and Morse let out a low laugh of celebration.

"About bloody time!" His first win of the evening would be his last, "And with that, I think I'm finished with cards. No reason to push my rotten luck any further."

"And here I thought you were just getting started," Max slid a tip to the dealer and Morse did the same.

"Take pity on my brother, Max," Joyce spoke up, "He can be a rather sore loser. Ripped a checkerboard clean in half once when we were kids-"

"Oh, I did not."

“You _did_ ,” She stepped aside so he could rise from the table and she took his arm once again when he was standing.

"It was an old set. It practically fell apart in my hands."

"What does one do in an investigation, Morse, when given two drastically conflicting statements?" Max lifted a brow. He looked very amused

Morse thought about it, looked at Max, and flashed a grin, "Always trust the more attractive of the pair." And he gave his sister's arm a squeeze and she buffeted him lightly in the shoulder.

They all laughed. And then Max was introduced to Margaret’s friend just out of conversation range so Joyce turned to Morse and squeezed his arm.

"Lets have that dance."

* * *

Morse thought he was a rather good dancer if he had to judge. He wasn’t exactly footloose and fancy free, but he was light enough on his feet and knew all the right steps to make a good show of things. Joyce was a bit of a mover herself, and also a responsive partner, so she was very good at following his lead. It was hard not to remember having his sister on his arm last time they danced, a younger Joyce as a blushing bride, and even before that a child Joyce, standing on his toes or insisting he learn the hot new moves when her mum had spoiled her with a brand new record player and she’d started getting into all the usual pop groups that young girls did.

Even now, with the two of them gliding smoothly around the dancefloor to a gentle tune, it was hard for him to forget that she was still just his little sister, little Joycie, a nickname he’d been banned from using on her since she’d become a mother.

The first song had been a slow one, meant for swaying and small talk, and their conversation drifted to the adorable old couples around them and then even further to Joyce lamenting that she hadn’t gone on a decent date with her husband in ages. Morse recommended she take a holiday, that she hand over the kids and let him baby sit, but she’d simply given him a skeptical look and then laughed, “With your schedule? You’ll have them at a crime scene. No, thank you.”

“Well, if it’s a murder, Max’ll probably be there. I also have a whole squad of uniforms who would love to supervise,” Morse joked. Honestly, constables could be like babies themselves, “Between all of them I’m sure someone would stop me from traumatizing them for life.”

Joyce grimaced and laughed until the slower song moved into a faster one and they actually had to put some effort behind their moves. As they bopped, Morse caught sight of Max and Margaret across the dance floor. They also were talking and smiling to themselves but before Morse could admire Max’s body swaying rhythmically to the music for more than a second, they were blocked by a moving pod of other dancing couples.

“I think I want to head home soon,” Joyce admitted to him softly.

“Of course,” Morse found her eyes again, “Anytime you’d like.”

“Oh, you don’t have to go too. You seem to be having a good time with your friend,” She squeezed his hand apologetically as they moved their dance to the fringes of the floor and then finally stepped off and onto the grass, “I think I’m just getting separation anxiety, you know. I know I shouldn’t worry. Keith’s a great dad.. And this was a lovely night. I just think I’ll feel better going home. I’ll get a cab.”

“It’s alright, Joyce,” Morse smiled and squeezed her hand. “I understand. Let me at least pay for the fare.”

They bickered back and forth on it all the way through the quad, from the dance floor, through the bar tent, and eventually to the street. There were cabs lined up and waiting for the guaranteed fares that would come eventually and Morse forced his money on the first driver he saw with uncharacteristic generosity before he finally saw Joyce off with a kiss, a hug and a wave.

Morse debated, standing there on the pavement in the sobering evening breeze, just taking himself home, but his mind drifted to Max and Margaret weaving about the dance floor somewhere inside. He should at least say goodbye.

And also have one more drink.

* * *

In the time it took Morse to stop at the bar and acquire a fresh whiskey, he had lost Max again. He’d gone back to the dancefloor hoping to catch a glimpse of he and Margaret but instead found her with a new partner, a thin sandy haired man, and she looked to be the happiest she’d looked all night. With Max nowhere to be found, Morse decided to take one last patrol. The idea that the doctor may have left was not entirely a devastating one, it wasn’t like they’d never see one another again and Morse was rather accustomed to lost opportunities. The disappointment was certainly easy to drown in that last drink. He worked his way back through the auction tent to check his bids, had a bit of small talk with the officers working there, and then decided he’d give a final go over of the casino games before he bid a formal adieu to the whole evening.

His mouth nearly ran dry when he spotted Max at a gaming table surrounded by a bubbling crowd and grinning as he shook one of his bejeweled hands. Morse paused to watch from a respectful distance as the dealer cried something out, Max revealed a set of dice in his palm, and then tossed them. They sailed across the table, bounced against the back wall, and another small cheer went up through the onlookers. Max, with an admirable ease, laughed and accepted a few hearty pats on the back from strangers.

Morse was there by his elbow in seconds, not keen on being left out.

“Seven or Eleven wins,” The dealer said above the din as the stickman raked the dice back and handed them to Max again.

“Morse!” Max perked with a smile to find the detective had joined him. He rolled the dice around in his fingers and Morse once more felt those tingles along his skin, “One more throw. How about you give me some good luck?”

Morse wasn't sure what he meant, and just sort of stared at the dice when they were held out to him.

“Hes’s on a hot streak!” A woman beside him in an overly ornate diamond necklace leaned in and even her abundant cleavage couldn’t distract him from the way the dice moved around in Max’s palm, “Go ahead. Blow on the dice!”

“What?”

“One for Lady Luck, Morse,” Max winked.

Morse, for the third time that evening, felt a bit hot under the collar but he could hardly deny Max’s request. He leaned in, inhaled deep, and blew out quickly like he was extinguishing a birthday candle. Just a quick puff, because he couldn’t trust himself with anything more performative, yet it set the small crowd all murmuring and smiling in approval.

Max made up for his lack of performance though. He lifted the dice in his hand, gave Morse a smile that felt very personal (and Morse was sure his stomach did a somersault into his throat and then down to his shoes) and gave them a very demonstrative shake before he tossed the dice towards the table’s back wall.

The bounced, rolled, and landed.

“Eleven wins!!” Cried the dealer.

The roar of the cheering was deafening and the back slaps of the well wishers left Morse with aching shoulders and an echo of reverberation through his chest.

* * *

“What happened with Margaret?” Morse hadn’t a chance to ask until Max had thrown a few more rolls at the urging of the crowd. Unfortunately, Morse’s very contagious bad luck had caught up with them eventually and several losses in a row marked the end of the craps adventure. It had at least been entertaining for those watching and betting.

“Ditched me,” Max said pleasantly.

“You sound almost happy about it,” Morse set his now empty glass on a passing tray and put his hands into his pockets.

“Her husband snuck in. Or found some other means of admittance but-” He pointed them out, still swaying on the dance floor. Bernard held Margaret close and she had her head on his shoulder, “I think she’s a bit impressed with him. He’s not exactly the daring type.”

“Good for him.”

Max just made an affirming sound.

“Joyce left as well,” Morse mused as he continued to watch the content couple on the dance floor, “I was thinking of heading out myself.”

“I’d say that sounds like a good plan,” Max blinked up at him.

Morse tilted his head, “Unless you’ve got a better one? I feel like I owe you something after hijacking your lucky streak,” Despite his knowledge that the house always won, Morse was sure that it was just his own aura of unluckiness that brought Max’s dice throwing to an end.

“How about a lift home?” Max smiled.

Morse returned it, “Of course.”

“Good,” Max fingered his watch fob once more, then pulled out his pocket watch to check it, “Then let's get going.”

They were half way to Max’s cottage, quietly streaking along the Oxford roads in the Jag at Morse’s usual ungodly driving speed. The windows were down and blasting them with cool evening air and Morse started to think too much about the quiet of the ride. The silence wasn’t awkward, it was comfortable and peaceful, still smelling of the outdoors and their drinks and ambient cigarette smoke from the party and that faint faint whiff of Max’s cologne. But they hadn’t put on music and the small talk had ended once they’d started to drive. He was sure he was thinking much too hard about it, about how his evening was coming to a close and he wasn’t quite ready for it, when he finally pulled into Max’s drive and found the idea of letting him go so easily sat heavily and anxiously on his heart.

Then Morse began to imagine Max going in to settle for the night and pulling those rings off one by one and an entirely different sort of feeling began to stir once more inside of him.

The silence felt thicker than ever.

Max cleared his throat as if he had read some of Morse’s mind (hopefully not all of it) and finally spoke up, “Fancy a night cap?”

“Oh absolutely,” Morse breathed almost desperately before he checked himself.

Max only seemed amused.

* * *

Max’s cottage had always been a soothing place for Morse. _Something had to be lovely_ , the doctor had said to him on his first visit and he’d never quite found a more perfect way to describe the place. Even years later, the garden having changed a dozen times over, the furniture and decor updated, a wider array of electronics provided by time, nothing quite changed the comforting feel of the place.

It was a sanctuary.

It was familiar and comfortable, as any home of an old friend would be, the sort of _mi casa es su casa_ congeniality that meant Morse didn’t think twice about wiping his feet and slinging off the jacket of his evening suit as soon as he stepped inside. As he threw it over the back of a chair, Max too shrugged the cool blue-grey houndstooth from his shoulders and dropped it over the arm of the sofa. Morse felt some unexpected twinge inside him as it was removed. The eye catching red bloom in the buttonhole disappeared into the fabric folds and it seemed a sin that it was torn away from the ruby ring and fob it matched.

And Morse had finally gotten him alone. Quiet. Private. He’d hoped to appreciate the look just a bit longer but could hardly ask Max to stay fully kitted out in his own home when he was settling in for the night. _Oh God-_ he wished he had the bollocks to just say, ‘No, don’t get out of your uncomfortable formal wear because I’d prefer to look at you, _just like this_.’

There was something to be said for Max’s look in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat though. It was almost like a new outfit. The blue velvet cinched at his waist, the back of it a silver satin that complimented the close cut of his silvering hair. The silver watch laced over his belly still glinted and, if anything, he was offered an even better view of his cufflinks and the bracelet that now dangled even easier from under his shirtsleeve. Morse hadn’t quite realized that the removal of one layer would be a problem all on it's own.

“Whiskey?” Max asked him with a glance cast over top of his glasses and over his shoulder as he walked to the drinks cabinet.

“Yes, thanks,” Morse licked his lips, let his eyes trail away from the way the waistcoat pulled in tight and smooth at the small of his back and where he could see Max's braces holding his trousers snug over his behind. No, Morse. No arse ogling.

The warmth creeping once more up his neckline had him loosening his tie.

There was a light fumbling sound where Max stood with a couple of empty glasses but it had been righted by the time Morse let his glance drift back over, “Alright there?”

“Perfectly,” Max snorted.

Morse moved to Max’s music collection, always a guaranteed spot for him to gravitate to in any home, and he browsed the familiar LP's as he heard the drinks poured and continued to pluck at his own collar.

"You’re sister's a lovely woman. Very pleasant," Max said when he was at Morse’s elbow offering him a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. His brows raised and Morse sensed a cheeky implication there.

"Unlike her brother?" Morse accepted the glass and smirked.

"She brings out a different side of you, that’s all. It's rather charming," Max smiled before silencing himself with a sip and walking towards the coffee table.

That warmth on his skin hadn’t yet gone away, a much too common occurrence tonight, and Morse drowned it once more in drink. It only dawned on him after the first smooth sip (Max stocked a much better cabinet than the police would spring for) that perhaps the whiskey was exacerbating things. Maybe he ought to slow down.

Max had set his drink down on the table and looked like he may be setting up to sit. Morse looked at his own, and did the same.

And then he nearly dropped it. A centimetre from the tabletop it slid from his fingers with a clunk as he noticed Max fiddling with his cufflinks as if he were going to remove them. The liquid sloshed up the side of the glass across his fingers and he was stuck in a momentary fugue panic about not making a fool of himself, not making a mess and also not revealing his blatant admiration.

“Alright there?” It was Max’s turn, well aware that Morse had asked him the same question moments before. He popped up to snatch a few tissues and hand them over as the closest available cloth.

“Perfectly,” Morse huffed. He snatched the napkins and pressed them under his glass and then began licking his fingers where the liquor had sloshed up onto his hand.

Max simply watched. Morse only noticed that he had interrupted the cufflink removal. Happy accidents.

“Let’s get you a towel,” Max shook his head and turned for the kitchen.

Morse trailed behind him, training his eyes not to drift too low as he followed, and continued to hold his damp fingers wide and spread to prevent too much stickiness. Max moved to the sink, dampened the end of a dish towel, and turned to hand it back.

“Didn’t think I was that pissed-” Morse wiped his hand clean, careful to get in between his fingers, and wondered how he’d slopped about so much. It was Max’s fault obviously, just as he’d been a distraction in the card game, he was even more of one here. The signet ring on his own pinkie was slicked with whiskey and he started to work it off his finger and he heard a slight noise from Max and looked up.

“I don’t recall seeing you ever wear jewelry before,” Max sounded like he was clearing his throat, the sentence came out slightly low and rough. It did strange things to Morse’s insides but he dare not think there was anything in it.

“Joyce convinced me to get a bit more done up for the do. Had these in the back of a drawer,” He finally pulled the ring off and thought he heard a slight exhale from Max but was too concerned about making sure there was no sticky liquid inside the band. When he finally dried his hand on the other half of the towel and slid the ring back on, Morse looked up and found Max watching him intently.

It was almost like- _Did he like it?_

“How do they look?” Morse tested. He set the towel on the counter and dropped his hand to his watch and chain. He extracted it from his pocket, clicked it open, and instead of looking down at the face and the age-old engraving, he watched as Max’s eyes dropped to his hands and followed his fingers as he played with the thing. He watched Max’s tongue dart along his lips just as Morse clicked the watch closed and tucked it away again.

Oh. Yes. Alright. Moments of the evening came into perspective, Max’s uncharacteristic distraction, the way he’d put a bit more flourish into his gambling. Morse’s body bloomed with the heat of his discovery, that this feeling he had may have been mutual, and with it came a welcome burst of confidence.

“Very-” Max blinked back into awareness and met Morse’s eyes. He may have realized he’d been caught by the way his ears tinged pink and his eyes widened behind his glasses, “-very nice. You ought to dress up more often.”

Morse grinned. He couldn’t help himself and he found Max grinning back.

"What about you?” Morse tilted his head and dared a step closer, “You’re also very... shiny tonight.”

Max let out a chuckle at the verbiage.

“What?” Morse still smiled, “You are. Gems and silver..”

He wanted to take his hand but dared not. Not yet. Still his fingers lifted and curled but he held back.

“It’s like you wanted the attention of everyone in the place.”

“Hm,” Max hummed a moment thoughtfully before his lips twitched in amusement, “Not everyone.”

Morse tried to second guess that statement and what it meant but it was hard when Max was looking at him like that and taking another step forward. Morse only had to reach out another inch to grab him and pull him close, to finally cross the line he dared not cross for so long.

“Oh,” Max exasperated as Morse fell into silence, “For god’s sake Mo-”

Morse stopped him mid statement with a kiss. He practically swooped in on him, stepping in close and fast, not to grab Max around the waist or press him back against the kitchen counter - that could come later - instead it was to tangle their hands together, to catch those jeweled fingers in his own, feel the metal on his skin and think about how it may feel on the rest of him. They locked with one another seamlessly, each man making a satisfied sound deep in their throat as their lips met and parted and their heads tilted for more. Morse felt the years pent up yearning just pour out, mix, and intoxicate them both as their hands squeezed and held tighter and tongues teased then tangled and everything took a desperate and hungry edge.

They only broke apart when Morse was sure he may explode from the thrill of it, from his nerves popping hot like firecrackers, his insides become an unstable jelly, his heart lodging somewhere under his breastbone and pulse pounding loudly in his ears. They only broke apart a hair, enough for each of them to breathe, for their foreheads to press together, and it was Morse who let out the first soft wondering laugh.

Max, struck by the unadulterated joy of the sound, burst into a smile of his own, “Finally. To think it only took a bit of jewelry..”

Morse dipped in again, kissed him swiftly to interrupt more talk. He let go of one of his hands so he could cup Max’s cheek in his palm. His fingers brushed the skin as he’d longed to do for years. Max smelled and tasted better than he could have ever imagined, the undefinable essence of him absolutely addictive, and he wasn’t sure that he could go back to a time where he didn’t kiss him like this. This kiss was slower, savouring, and he felt Max smile and lift on his toes for more.

“The jewelry is just a bonus,” Morse murmured when they finally parted again. His hand still cupped Max’s face, his thumb caressing the corner of his mouth, “You’re perfect. Always have been…”

Max flushed.

“But the jewelry is..” Morse flashed a devilish smile, “I think you should leave it on.”

“Oh?” It was Max’s turn to look devilish. He also lifted a hand to caress Morse’s face, brush his cheek and curl some stray wisps of hair behind his ear, “I think that can be managed.”

“And you let me stay the night,” Morse squeezed the one hand they still held tangled together.

Max lifted on his toes once more, guided Morse’s face close as if he were telling him a secret, and grazed his lips across his cheek to his ear, “So long as you put your tie and jacket back on as well before we move upstairs.”

Morse felt something like magma writhe from his ear down his throat and chest and belly to collect behind his navel. He actually shivered, "And _your_ jacket."

“Alright,” Max agreed with a hum of approval.

Morse grinned and his head bobbled like an eager fool. For Max deBryn he would always be happy to play that fool, “Yes, I think that can definitely be managed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Diamond Dave by the bird and the bee  
>  _Diamond Dave / No one can hold a candle / Nothing else is quite the same / Pretty Dave / I'll always remember / I still carry such a flame_


End file.
